Thanks for the reviews and sorry for the delay. I hesitate posting this chapter now after Born Under a Bad Sign. I've had full intentions of having Dean battling the dark in this fic and I'm afraid it's going to sound like I'm copying that episode with an evil Sammy (which was incredible hot). Ten chapters in I don't want to scrap this story yet. Let me know if it's too much alike. I'm undecided at this point.

Fights Bite

Chapter 10

"Kansas," Dean rasps, his entire body now shaking involuntarily. "I'm from Kansas," he's up out of his seat swaying, looking around frantically. "I..."

"Are you okay?" The bartender looks at him questionably. The man is swaying like he's drunk. An instant sheet of perspiration is covering his pale features.

"Yeah... I... bathroom," he barely manages to choke out. His stomach is twisting and turning in every direction making him lightheaded and even more nauseous than before.

"Straight back, follow the neon purple sign," the bartender instructs.

Dean nods his head slowly and begins staggering towards the sign. His vision is fuzzy and he can't make out the words. He leans into the first door he sees, not even sure if it's the men's or ladies restroom. At this point he doesn't even care. He's going to throw up. He walks in unsteadily and drops to his knees at the first commode. He wraps his hands around the ledge and leans in, his stomach instantly heaving.

After several minutes of expelling the liquid contents in his stomach followed by some painful dry heaving, he leans up and flushes, then eases back to sit on his behind. He stretches his legs out from beneath him and leans his head back against the cool tiled wall. He swallows instinctively in an attempt to soothe his agitated throat. With his hand rubbing subconsciously at his stomach, eyes closed tight with pain, his mind begins to drift.

Jerking back to awareness, Dean opens his eyes and looks around confused. Where is he? The motel bathroom floor? He squints a few times to focus, zooming in on the graffiti covered wall his head is resting on. He reads one particular spot that is in big black bold marker. 4 A Good Fuck, Jewels 555-0356. There is an arrow pointing at her name in a red, thinner marker, ending with the words, Bitch gave me STD.

"Guess I won't be calling Jewels," he moans to himself, running his hand across his battered face. He fells like major shit. How long as he been sleeping here? He runs his hand down to his side, expecting to reach into his jacket for his cell phone to get the time, and probably several missed messages from Sammy, to discover he's not wearing it.

"Bar stool," he remembers where he left it. He remembers where he's at. He rubs at his stomach again before easing up the wall. He thinks the liquor is what upset his stomach. Perhaps it wasn't a very good idea to come here. Why did he come back here? He paces over to the sink and starts the cold tap, washing his hands with soap and water he then rinses his mouth out and spits. He splashes water in his face and looks up in the mirror.

"You look like death, Dean," he says reaching for the paper towel rack. He decides he's going to pay for his drinks and maybe call Sam for a ride. Hopefully he's not too upset with him for leaving the motel room. His head is throbbing and he's not in the mood to hear Sam's whining.

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A few strides in he's on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Something made him slip. "Mrrrrrrrr," he groans arching his sore back up he removes his arm he fell on. He rolls his head to the side, "Oh my God!"

The bartender stares back at him with dead eyes. His throat slit; blood pooling around both of them.

"What the?" Sam scrambles back and attempts to stand, his shoes slipping in the slick blood he falls ungracefully back to his ass. He takes in the sight before him. He doesn't need to feel for a pulse. The man is clearly dead. He reaches out regardless, touching the man's hand. It's warm to the touch verifying he hasn't been dead for very long.

Sam grabs his weapon from his waistband and stands on shaky legs. His eyes instantly begin to scan the back room for any sign of movement. He does a sweep of the room to find it empty. There is a backdoor, most likely leading to a dumpster. He reaches out and tests the handle. It's locked from the inside. He makes the assumption whoever or whatever did this came in through the front door. That leads to the biggest question. Where is his brother?

He pulls out his cell phone and hits speed dial. He keeps his gun held high, his other hand up to his ear. It's ringing.

He faintly hears Dean's signature ring tone. He follows the music that is growing louder and louder with each unanswered ring. He exits cautiously from the backroom. He strains his ears and glances over to the barstool just as voice mail picks up. Dean's phone must be in his jacket.

"Damn it," he curses, eyeing up the much larger room. He folds his flip phone and shoves it back into his pocket. A flicker of movement catches the corner of his eye and he turns his entire body, ready to aim and fire.

Dean exits the bathroom with his head down. He's rolling the ache in his shoulders.

"DON'T MOVE!"

Dean jumps and looks up to see Sam holding a gun at him from across the room. A look in his eyes saying he's going to shoot.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean half ass raises his arms, a slight grin forming over his handsome face. "Don't shoot, please. I was getting ready to come back..."

"DAMN IT DEAN!" Sam yells, half relieved yet even more confused at the occurring situation.

Dean's eyes cast to the blood on Sam's clothing. He lowers his arms, all sarcasm leaving his tone. "Sammy? What happened?"

Sam keeps the gun pointed at Dean. "You tell me? Did you kill that bartender?" He watches his brother's reaction.

Dean continues to stare at the blood on Sam, a genuine confused expression forming. He glances over to the bar for said bartender then back to Sam. "Whad'ya mean killed? He's not dead... I was just havin' a few drinks..."

Sam shakes his head. "Dean. He's in the back cut ear to ear. He's dead. This is his blood on me."

"Huh?" Dean's eyes widen. "What? No. That can't be. I'm telling you Sam, he served me some drinks. We were talkin'," he takes a few steps towards the bar. "I um... I had to use the can. He was standing right there," he points. Sam continues to hold the gun on him and he snaps. "Damn it Sam would you stop pointing that thing at me?"

Sam takes a little bit more time than Dean expected lowering the weapon. The hesitation causes him to snap again. "What?! You think I did this?"

Sam's mouth drops open to speak but no words come out. The truth is, he has no idea if Dean did this or not. From his brother's reaction he didn't do it but with his odd behavior lately he's still not a hundred percent sure.

After Dean snapped out of it back at the motel he carried the same expression. It's like he had no control over what he did. He can't just eliminate the possibility Dean didn't do this because he says he didn't, as much as he'd like to.

Sam's shoulders slump and he reaches around his back, tucking his weapon away safely. "Of course I don't think you did this," he lies.

"I can tell," Dean quips giving Sam an unpleasant glare before heading behind the bar and into the back. He swings the door open and gasps. "Son of a..." he holds his tongue from swearing as he kneels down in front of his lifeless body. "How did this happen, man?" He speaks softly. "How long was I out? Why didn't I hear anything?"

Sam walks up behind him silently. How long was I out? The words bring bile into the back of his throat. Dean did have another incident. He bites his tongue and observes.

"I'm so sorry. I could have helped you," Dean whispers, sadness in his voice. He reaches into the man's back pocket and removes his wallet. He flips it open and looks at his driver's licence. "I never even got your name...Joshua." He looks up at the man while he folds the wallet back up and stuffs it back into his pocket. "Thanks for the words and the drink, Joshua."

"Dean," Sam finally speaks. "We have to get out of here."

Dean nods his head sadly, "Yeah."

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The three block ride back to the motel room is spent in silence.

As Sam pulls into the parking spot in front of their motel room he shuts the engine off and removes the keys, pocketing them. "Stay put," he breaks the quietness. "I'm getting our stuff and we're leaving town."

Dean looks at Sam hurt. "I said I didn't do this, Sammy." He's sure he didn't.

"That doesn't change the fact you are a wanted man and both are prints are all over that bar." They were going to wipe the place clean, as much as they could anyway. However, two men entered the bar for an early drink and they had to hurriedly leave. By now the body must have been discovered and they didn't have much time. It wasn't like the Impala was a conspicuous ride.

Dean complies, running his fingers across his face, ignoring the hurt it causes his bruising. "I'll help; it'll be quicker."

"Just stay put," Sam says impatiently. As he steps from the Impala, easing the door shut, he can't help but feel guilty. He knows Dean knows he doesn't believe him. Dean can read everyone of his emotions Sometimes he wonders if their Dad's journal has a secret section only Dean can decode. A section all about Sammy Winchester. Maybe there is.

As Sam slings the last bag over his shoulder, the dirty laundry bag, he makes a grab for Dean's laptop. He does a quick inventory of the room. It's not like they have that many possessions.

It hits him. He looks down at the laptop in his hands then over to the table. It's where he last saw it. He knows he didn't pick it up yet in his heist to retrieve their things. Dean must have it. No. It can't be. He paces over to the bed and holds in a deep breath. He picks Dean's pillow up off the bed. Nothing.

Dean has his knife.

Images of Joshua in the backroom, slit throat, blood... so much blood. "No!"

TBC...